Bagelsmith – 189 Bedford Ave (between 6th St & 7th St) Brooklyn, NY
Apparently bagels are a commodity in New York City.
I’m working my way down to DC this weekend for a stellar adventure of monuments and museums and rainbow flags surrounding Dupont Circle and I figured it’d be tight and all to fetch a couple of bagels for me and boyfriend before the adventure began.
Walking down Bedford Avenue I got this sensation of a black hole in my stomach that can only be rounded off to a miniature pissy move by my stomach for consuming a couple buds the night before. Bloating is the new event horizon.
Walk on in, and it reeks of carbohydrate paradiso. The whole restaurants stamped up to hell with Boar’s Head cold cuts, which is both equally exciting and depressing because while I could spend minutes looking up and dreaming up some forest ham with some cheddar with a li’l bit of jalapeño and avocado- stuff’s expensive as hell, so I settle for the intoxicatingly nourishing scallion cream cheese- nourishing because it tars over your stomach lining and you feel the urge to never have the urge to eat again.
So I hit up some onion bagel with scallion cream cheese and tomato and avocado, because I like the way my breath smells. For the guy-bro back at the flat, PB&J on a Cinnamon Raisin bed of fortified solitude. Toasted.
Lord. Lemme tell you. I’m all down for scallion cream cheese and all that, but something about having, in your possession, a PB&J anything. It’s like you’ve gripped your childhood by the balls, like back in the day when my mom would make me PB&J on extra fiber 80-calorie slices because I was a commie little asswipe with a tendency to hide all the sugar cookies in the house. I also stole a lot of her protein bars. My b.
PB&J did me in good. I remember, I’d make some when I’d be coming back from school; I’d never walk the dog because I figured that if she could wait seven hours to pee and all she could wait another two, I’d drop my stuff off as I walked, feeling like a li’l Miami version of Hansel and Gretel fending their way through to the land of milk and honey and PB&J and protein bars. And I’d chow down.
Man, the feeling of getting peanut butter stuck to the roof of your head- maybe that’s where it comes from- the joy of it all. Maybe initially, it wasn’t joy at all- but the excruciating work that makes PB&J so memorable. I mean, this shit gets stuck to your roof, and you’re left there, smacking your lips like a camel gone dry with saliva, grunting and groaning as your eyes tweak out to the quintessence that is irrefutably God’s Gift To Humanity. It’s also mad cheap, and in some moments, can pass as the paradigm crop of the all inclusive food-pyramid.
bagels in hand, I take a stroll back down Bedford Avenue. For some reason I feel awkward and shy. I wondered at first if it was because I had forgotten my pair of Ray bans or because for whatever reason my pants weren’t tapered down by the chins tight enough.
Either way, I made it back to the flat, laid in bed with my guy for a couple moments and pretended that fancy ass ingredients on a onion bagel could ever beat the PB&J sensation that got me through puberty.
Alas. He has some Peanut Butter in the cabinets, I’ll sneak a scoop before I head out.